Five Days Left (29 page)

Mara

Mara stepped into the garage, pushing the door behind her closed. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to lean back and let the door support her. The vodka bottle hung by its neck from one hand and she clutched a bag of sleeping pills in the other. Tears ran so fast down her cheeks she saw no point in trying to wipe them away anymore.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “No time for this.”

She set the bottle and bag on the hood of her car and got to work. Behind some large bags of fertilizer, she had hidden four rolls of duct tape and a stack of towels she had bought months ago. Carefully, she taped over the outline of the door into the house, sealing it shut. She had read online that newer houses had good enough door seals, so there was no need to bother with this step—the carbon monoxide wouldn’t get into the house. But who would take the chance?

All along, she had planned to leave the top of the door—she couldn’t reach it without a ladder, and taping the other three sides was already overkill. But looking at it now, she frowned. The untaped length of door was unsettling. It made her feel she was leaving something undone. She pulled the stepladder over and, holding her breath, climbed up, one hand holding four long strips of tape, the other pressed firmly against the
door, holding her steady. She hadn’t been on a stepladder in over a year and it was more difficult than she would have thought. Her parents and Tom had been right to insist she not do it.

Next, she pressed three towels along the bottom of the door into the house, ten more along the bottom of the garage door. Reaching behind the bags of fertilizer again, she extracted a garbage bag she had hidden there, and from inside she pulled out a length of soft plastic tubing. It had been easier to pull off the role of DIY home repairwoman than she would have thought possible—the guy at the hardware store simply asked her the length, cut it to size and handed it over along with a roll of tape, wishing her good luck.

Now she taped one end carefully around the tailpipe of her car, fed the other end into a small crack in the rear driver’s-side window and taped it in place there. She had read about this online, too—modern engines didn’t create the same concentration of carbon monoxide as the old ones did. Ultimately, more than the tubing, it was essential to have the right number of pills. But this was not the time to do anything halfway.

She reviewed her handiwork and nodded, satisfied, before moving toward the bottle and pills. With one hand on the bottle, she turned her head to consider Tom’s car, behind her. She had been faster at taping than she had accounted for, she told herself. She had a little extra time. She left the vodka, opened the passenger door of Tom’s sedan and lowered herself onto the seat.

Running her hands over the beige leather, she inhaled deeply—Tom’s aftershave. She reached a tentative hand to the driver’s seat and ran her hand over it longingly, as though instead of cool leather, she could feel his warm body. She slid her hand around the sleek circumference of the steering wheel before dropping it to the gearshift, which she held softly, as though it were his hand.

She ran her palm along the dashboard before opening the glove box and touching a fingertip to his car manual, the envelope that held his registration and insurance, and his CDs. She smiled. He refused to put
one of those CD holders on his visor, but he couldn’t reach them in the glove box as he was driving, and it was never until he was on the highway that he remembered he had meant to take one out of its case, slide it into the player. For almost a year, he had listened to the same CD—Tom Petty, the one she had put into his player for him the day he brought the car home. She eased herself out and closed the door gently.

Inside her own car, Mara set the vodka bottle on the passenger seat and emptied the bag of pills into the cup holder. She leaned against the seat and took a deep breath.

Stale apple juice.

Laks.

She craned her neck toward the backseat. Her daughter’s booster was covered in crumbs, and an hourglass-shaped juice box lay beside it, squeezed in the middle so every last drop could come out. There was a pink flip-flop wedged between the booster and the seat belt. Mara clutched a hand to her throat.

As she considered the little sandal, it struck her that in Harry’s cab, with its smell of cologne, its shiny vinyl seats and spotless floor, it had been so easy to wrap herself in a shroud of her own pain and fears, her stringent rules about what she could and could not tolerate, what she could and could not allow her daughter, her husband, her parents, her friends to abide. She might not have been able to keep so focused with the faint odor of stale juice around her, the tiny fingerprints on the window. The flip-flop.

She closed her eyes and heard Laks’s voice singing “Happy Birthday,” giggling as she finished the song with the “Are you one? Are you two?” chant her friends all sang at their parties, going up the numbers until they reached the age of the birthday boy or girl. When Laks reached twenty, Mara heard her parents whispering in the background, helping her get the numbers right. They were eating pancakes, Laks announced, and Mara could picture the sticky syrup on the girl’s cheek—and now, likely, on her parents’ phone.

She thought about the honey she’d found behind Laks’s ear when she’d lain beside her the other night. She thought about the tufts of hair that stuck out on the side of the girl’s head, courtesy of Susan and her “fix” for the glue incident. She thought about the five big pushes Laks begged for on the swing every day, the new “spider guy” technique she’d mastered for climbing up the plastic slide. She thought about how they’d cuddled on the couch together yesterday, Laks gripping her mother’s arm tightly, nestling her bony bottom into Mara’s stomach, sighing contentedly like there was nothing she would rather do than watch TV with her mother.

Mara drew in a sharp breath, pressing a thumb and finger against her eyelids.

“Turn around,” she said. And she did, quickly, and just as quickly she reached for the bottle of vodka and took a long swallow. She pressed her head into her headrest, keeping her gaze fixed forward, out the windshield, and told herself this was why the universe had sent her Harry. She couldn’t have gotten through these last days in her own car, with this—her daughter, her life—all around her. She needed the safe cocoon of the taxi, away from everything and everyone she was leaving behind.

Quickly, she tilted the bottle again, and as she swallowed, she fished in the pocket of her robe for the keys. A crinkling sound reminded her that she’d folded the haiku and put it there last night. Her fingers grazed the edges of the paper.

Her proud daughter. How proud would she be now? How strong would she think her mother was? There was no strength in escaping.

Mara snapped her hand out of her pocket and trapped it under her thigh, away from the poem. She put a handful of pills in her mouth, tilted the bottle and washed them down.

Then she started the car.

Scott

Scott swiveled his head from Laurie to the office. The desk, filing cabinet, ironing board and plastic storage bins that had taken up most of the room were gone. In their place was a twin bed with a maize-and-blue comforter, an area rug that imitated the streets of a town. A low bookshelf ran under the window,
Stuart Little
propped on a book stand on top, alongside a small framed photograph: the one of Scott and Curtis reclining on the boy’s bed, reading about the mouse.

There was no Warm Ecru in sight—the walls were blue on the bottom half, maize on the top half, with a “Michigan! Go Blue!” border dividing top from bottom. Curtis’s toy basketball hoop hung on the wall near the window and a half dozen framed Michigan basketball posters leaned against the closet door, waiting to be hung. He looked at Laurie in confusion as she stepped toward him.

“Pete and half the boys tackled this room while Bray and I and the other half worked on the nursery,” she said. “We started the minute you pulled out and, taskmaster that I am, I didn’t let them take one break. They ate pizza while they worked. Thank God the season’s over—you have no idea how fast you can get things done with eight varsity athletes on hand.”

He looked at her, part thrilled about what he thought this meant, part terrified he was wrong. “For . . . ?”

She nodded. “For Curtis.”

“For when he comes to visit?” he whispered.

She smiled, shaking her head. “For when he goes to bed at night. Or wants to play with his toys. Or escape his little sister.”

Scott’s knees were liquid and he took a quick step into the room, sitting heavily on the bed. Leaning forward, he put his head in his hands and felt dampness from his cheeks cover his palms.

Laurie knelt in front of him, a hand on each of his knees. “The craft room looks pretty much the same. Minus the town rug and
Stuart Little
. And we didn’t get around to painting yet. But I took the money I saved on the cheaper crib and bought a bed—extra-long. Want to see?”

He spread his fingers and peered through them at her, confused.

“For when Bray comes home,” she said. “You know, for holidays, summer vacation, the NBA off-season. Whenever it is that grown kids go home to see their families.”

Gently, she moved his hands away from his face and kissed him. “I am not oblivious to the sacrifices you’ve made for me over the past however many years. Buying this wreck of a house and doing all the work ourselves all those evenings and weekends. Trying for a baby long after you were ready to accept our fate and move on. Spending all our money on IVF.

“After you went downstairs last night, I felt miserable about our argument. And I tried to make myself feel better by imagining what it would be like to walk into that room”—she pointed across the hall—“and pick our daughter up out of her crib. I tried to picture it—our house, with just that one room occupied, and the rest of this long hall empty while we wait for more babies. And I kept waiting for this feeling to kick in—this feeling of, I don’t know, contentment, I guess, or peace. This thing I’ve been waiting so long for would finally be happening. We’re going to have our own family, just the three of us. I should be the happiest woman alive.

“And I was imagining it, and I didn’t feel content at all, or peaceful. Or happy. All I felt was sad. Brokenhearted. Filled with regret. And it hit me that you would feel that way every day for the rest of your life if we didn’t do whatever we could to help these boys.”

She sniffed. “And I realized that no matter what I thought I wanted my life to be five days ago, all I know now is that whatever my life is, it won’t be anything if I know you’re not happy. And if I’m the one who kept you from being happy. So I started imagining something else.” She swept an arm around the room. “I started imagining this. And that’s when I felt the contentment and peace I’d been waiting to feel.”

He cleared his throat. “Are you sure? Do you think maybe you’re just feeling . . . sentimental, or something, because of what they’ve gone through? Do you think you’ll regret it the next time Curtis gets sent to the principal’s office or comes home with a bloody nose?”

“Of course I’m feeling sentimental because of what they’ve gone through. So are you. And I’ve thought about how I’ll feel when he messes up next, as kids do, and whether I’ll feel resentful when it happens. And I hope I’m right about this, but what I decided was that you were right about how it’s easy to focus on white picket fences and perfect children, like I’ve been doing all this time. But maybe that’s not what our life is supposed to be, after all. Maybe it’s supposed to be about broken chain-link fences—the ones at Franklin. And the imperfect kids who come with it.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Sure we can handle him without wanting to tear our hair out sometimes? No. Not even close. I promise I’m going to look at you a hundred times a year and ask what the hell I was thinking. And you’ll have to remind me of this conversation. And then hand me a drink.”

She smiled, raised herself a little higher and kissed him again. “But I am sure I love him, and Bray. And I have never been more sure that I love you. And that’s all I need to be sure of.”

The Forum

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:30 p.m.

MotorCity wrote:

I’m happy to announce I feel tired and am about to go to bed . . . and to sleep! You know you’re getting old when that’s news . . .

@Moms—I sent you some PMs about this already. Will jump over to PM again after this for a bedtime chat. I’m worried now about you resorting to juicer ads while I’m snoring away. ;)

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:32 p.m.

2boys wrote:

dude, you catch the highlights? pettitte’s healthy and strong and lookin’ to log a couple no hitters, starting in detroit . . . seriously though, glad you kicked the insomnia—that mean brother’s made a choice you’re happy with? do tell—inquiring minds wanna know

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:34 p.m.

flightpath wrote:

Yes, MotorC, do tell. I’ve been logging in all w/e—something I ordinarily don’t do, as you know—to see if you’ve had news to share. Has brother made a decision?

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:35 p.m.

MotorCity wrote:

If I didn’t love you all so much, I’d make you guess, take wagers, the whole bit. But I do, so . . . I’m adopting LMan. And brother. Well, you can’t adopt a 20-year-old, exactly, but I’m claiming him as my own. Have a room for him for when he comes home from mopping up the college courts with the fools who try to face him, then when he starts doing the same in the pros. Or in the boardroom . . . however it turns out for him.

And b/f 2boys can ask, my wife is all for it. You heard me: All. For. It. LMan and I came home from Monster Trucks today and damn if she hadn’t put brother and some of his teammates to work, along with Pete (who likely ate pizza, drank beer and delegated most of the day away). By the time we sauntered in, they’d fixed up permanent rooms for both boys, alerted the social worker, all of that.

I feel as if my life started again tonight. (Cue flightpath to tell me I’m way too sappy to be a coach.)

@Moms—I’ve got details for you that the rest won’t be as interested in. Can’t wait to hear your reaction.

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:37 p.m.

2boys wrote:

wow—great news on getting the kid AND the girl in the end, not to mention the tall guy who can clean the eaves every fall ;)

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:40 p.m.

SoNotWicked wrote:

WAHOO, MotorC! SO HAPPY! So glad I stayed up late enough to check and now, night all! See you in the morning. I’m gonna fall asleep thinking about NEW TOPICS to discuss. Something *LIGHT* is in order after the week we’ve had, don’t you think? SUGGESTIONS?

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:45 p.m.

2boys wrote:

sonotwicked—yankees. let’s have a whole week of chatter about the yankees. motorc’s in too good a mood to say no.

Sunday, April 10 @ 10:48 p.m.

MotorCity wrote:

@2boys—I’ll never be in that good a mood. Tigers alllll the way.

@Moms—You must be busy—still no answers to my PMs from earlier. I’ll check again in a little while, after I look in on the boys in their beds for the hundredth time.

Sunday, April 10 @ 11:32 p.m.

MotorCity sent this private message:

LaksMom, not to sound too dramatic, but is everything okay? I’ve kind of been waiting for you. I feel like this whole thing won’t really feel official until you know about it.

I’m starting to wish we’d traded real names and numbers at some point, so I could look you up and call. I feel certain you wouldn’t mind if I invaded your privacy for this. :)

Sunday, April 10 @ 11:55 p.m.

MotorCity sent this private message:

Hey LaksMama. Thought I’d check one last time, but looks like you’re still offline. I’m sure there must be some simple explanation on your end, like no Internet service or something, but man, I’m going crazy here, waiting to talk to you! I’m so psyched to tell you all the details about how today went down, and to hear what’s up on your end.

Are you there?